The American Way
by Call me Red
Summary: The assasination of Charles Xavier. Once it was spattered across the headlines, the buzz of every newspaper. Now, it's barely remembered. Which is why a reporter is baffled when he gets his new assignment...Set in my own special universe.
1. The Job

  
Disclaimer: They're not mine. If they were, I'd be even more annoyingly happy than I already am.   
  
Author's Mad Rantings: This is all in an alternate universe. As long as you get that, the rest will come in time.   
  
  
  
  
  
The American Way  
  
  
"...You remember those old heroes? From the comics? You know the ones. They lived forver, fought the good fight and never lost. Yeah, well, that was us. We lived for a long time, believing for a lone time in our own mortality. We only realized how wrong we were when friends started to die...fall from grace all around us. It caught up with us the day he was taken from us...and of course, by then, it was too late. By then, the end had already begun..."  
  
  
  
Chapter One  
The Job  
  
  
  
Oh, man, his head pounded. Like a drum at a Fourth of July parade. He groaned again (louder this time) and raised his face from his hands.   
  
"Cindy, hey, Cindy!" He flagged her down. "Be a doll and get me a bottle of Aspirin, would ya?"   
  
The honey-blond intern laughed, her curls bouncing around her shoulders in the process. "Another rough night, Bookie?" He nodded, rubbing his temples in hopes to banish the dull pain. "I take it you're lookin' for Extra Strength, then?"   
  
He attempted a smile. "You're too good to me, baby." She left, carrying the day's mail. Bookie settled into the peace and quiet.   
  
Which lasted about three seconds, considering he was sitting in the heart of a thriving newspaper office.   
  
"BOOKIE!" With a shudder he recognized the voice. He inclined his head to see his worst nightmare stalking down the aisle.   
  
"Yeah, Brenda, I'm here. No need to yell." He raised his eyes to look at her. "What's cookin'?"   
  
"Your ass, most likely." Brenda, with her chin length black hair and cheap knock off Gucci threads, came closer to a smile than Bookie had ever seen her. "Boss Man wants to see you. Probably to bawl you out for coming to work with a hangover."   
  
"Thanks a bunch, Brenda," he mustered, sliding out of his chair and predicting she was right. But how she ever got to be floor manager he'd never know.   
  
He deftly manoeuvred through the constant calamity he'd grown used to in the years he'd worked here, wishing he'd waited for Cindy to come back with his pills. Jack Reynolds' office loomed at the other side of the floor.   
  
More than a few people he knew from around gazed at him sympathetically, since they'd probably seen it coming more than Bookie had. This wasn't the first time he'd come in after a wild night. And not the worst time, either. Once he hadn't even waited for the hangover, and just stumbled in drunk one morning.   
  
Yeah, so he deserved whatever he was getting.   
  
Bookie quietly knocked on the huge oak door, hoping he could walk away claiming no one had been in. No such luck. A large voice boomed out an invitation to come in. Jack Reynolds was on the phone, flapping off to a distributor, most likely. Bookie poked his head inside and was soon followed by the rest of his body.   
  
Jack covered the receiver with a fat hand and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Sit down," he spat, and immediately went right back to his argument on the phone.   
  
Bookie obeyed, taking his place in the chair.   
  
Jack wrapped up his call, not without a few hefty curses. "My wife," he explained, squeezing into his seat.   
  
Bookie only nodded, not sure of what else he could do at the moment.   
  
"You smoke?" Jack inquired as he placed a cigarette in his mouth and held up the box to Bookie.   
  
"Yeah, thanks." Bookie leaned forward and grabbed one. "I was tryin' to wait till lunch."   
  
"Nah, don't bother," Jack said as he lit his and Bookie's smoke. "It ain't the nicotine, it's the waiting that kills ya."   
  
Bookie allowed himself to chuckle, forgetting about the bowling ball-sized pain slamming into the sides of his head. He held back a wince and rubbed his temples.   
  
"Johnson," the impeding man before him finally said, letting out a puff of smoke as he did. "Lemme get right to the point. I got a job for you."   
  
Bookie almost sagged with relief. Looks like he'd live to screw up another day. "Oh yeah?"   
  
"Yeah," Jack repeated. "You got anything under your belt now?"   
  
Bookie thought for a moment, his memory deserting him. "One piece about the stadium downtown. And that little one about the Public Transit I've been nursing for about a year."   
  
"Yeah," Jack muttered almost thoughtfully. "Well, toss them on to some other poor slob; what I got for you is a little more important than who's driving the buses around town."   
  
He jumped from his seat over to close the door, no easy feat for a man of Jack's considerable build. He walked around again, pausing, and then perching himself on his desk. It creaked and groaned with the weight.   
  
Bookie waited a minute before the silence started to annoy him. "So, what is it?"   
  
"Bookie Johnson...I remember when you first came here. You little shit. I didn't like you from the minute you walked in here. You're arrogant, you're sloppy..." He paused, leaning in a little closer, "but you're good. So I keep you around."   
  
"Is that why I get the worst jobs, Jack? 'Cause I'm too good?" Bookie sat back, and crossed his arms, hoping the sarcasm was heard in his voice.   
  
"No, that's because I don't like ya." He was dead serious. "And because you're a pompous little fool who knows he's got the goods, and thinks that's all you need."   
  
"Isn't it?"   
  
"No, you little...you gotta have the story." His eyes almost lit up from behind his thick glasses. "A reporter, no matter how good, ain't got shit if he don't got a story worth dying for."   
  
"Which I haven't."   
  
Jack nodded in agreement. "Not till now." He hoisted himself off the desk and around to his chair again, taking a long pause before he spoke again.   
  
"You remember a guy named Xavier?"   
  
"Sounds familiar...who was he?"   
  
Jack poked around the papers on his desk until he found the picture he was looking for. He passed it to Bookie. "That's him. He was...a activist, sorta, for mutants."   
  
"Oh yeah, I think I remember. Dead, right?"   
  
"Yep. Unknown assassin or some shit...research that, will ya?" Bookie nodded and slipped his notebook out of his pocket, scribbling furiously. "Anyway, that was about nine, ten years ago."   
  
"Yeah, I remember. That was a big fuckin' deal back then."   
  
"Huge. It was right before the election, remember? Anyway, after a while all the buzz died down, and certain information came forward that..." Jack paused and sifted through the papers on his desk, again pulling out a thick folder. "That Xavier had been the head of...get this...the almighty X-Men."   
  
"You're kidding, right?" Bookie looked up from his scribbles. "Why didn't the story break?"   
  
"Nobody cared," Jack said bluntly. "They spilt up a year before it was came out. Half of them were dead, anyway. It just wasn't news anymore. It did run...in a couple of small local papers, I think...check the folder, it's got everything. But when it came down to it, nobody remembered the X-Men."   
  
Bookie allowed for a short silence before speaking up. "So what's the job?"   
  
Jack snapped into concentration. "What? Oh, right." Jack rubbed his hands together, a wide grin on his face. "You, my friend, are going to track down the remaining X-Men."  
  
"For what, an interview? Are you joking?"   
  
"Nope. I need you to find out the story behind the story...nobody actually know why Xavier got taken out, or who did the deed. And think about it, who else would know better than his faithful little lapdogs?"  
  
"Nobody cares, Jack. You said it yourself."   
  
"They will."   
  
"Okay, well, even if I do, by some miracle, manage to find even one member...who says they'll talk?"   
  
Jack scratched his chin. "The way I see it, it's been almost a decade. If I kept quiet for ten years about something like that, I'd be just about ready to spill to the checkout guy at Wendy's." He grinned lazily. "Makes sense, don't ya think?"   
  
Bookie hated to admit it, but it did.   
  
"Look, either you want the job, or ya don't. I got other people who would jump out a window for a chance like this."   
  
A chance? Bookie thought to himself. For what? More work, probably. "What do I get?"   
  
"Travel expenses, spending money, freedom of speech...and an office when you come back. With a view. And a little nameplate outside on the wall." Jack laughed, stretching his hands in a sweeping gesture. "Just think of it: Bookie Johnson, reporter at large."   
  
Bookie thought for a moment. He could turn this into another vacation...which was, coincidentally, just what he needed. It wasn't a bad job either...might even take up to a year, all depending...  
  
"Alright, Jack, you got yourself a reporter," Bookie said, offering his hand for a shake.  
  
Jack let out a laugh and shook Bookie's hand with enough force to shatter bones. "That's what I like to hear. Now, officially, you start this coming Thursday, but I want your research to at least be started by then. Now, get out of here, you son of a bitch." Bookie started to leave, but Jack called out yet again.   
  
"One more thing, Johnson," Jack bellowed, tossing something over, which Bookie barely managed to catch. It was a small bottle. He turned it around and read the label: Aspirin.  
  
"No more hangovers on the job."   
  
  
  
  
  
Me Again: So...? What do we think? Face it people, I don't know these things, I'm not psychic...yet.  
  



	2. Old Wounds

  
  
Disclaimer: I INSIST that they are not mine.   
  
Author's Note: I was aiming for the cliche, just to note.   
  
  
  
Chapter Two   
Old Wounds  
  
  
  
  
Start at the beginning.   
  
That was the advice of an old high school teacher. Mind you, besides being a drunk and an otherwise promiscuous figure, that teacher had 'resigned' off the staff a little after Bookie had made acquaintance with him.   
  
But it was good advice, and good advice applies to everything.   
  
And, despite the fact that his last library visit had had something to do with Dr. Seuss, Bookie figured it was the logical place to go. What else, really, did he have to do but start his research? Besides, it was a great way to kill a few hours.   
  
He stepped inside the unfamiliar halls of the public library, and the musty odour startled him for a moment. When he walked further in through the mammoth doors, he realized that his notion of a library was shattered.   
  
"I thought it was s'pose to be no noise," Bookie joked to the young, prim looking woman seated behind the desk. Heh. She was kinda a fox.   
  
But she didn't get the joke, and gave him a look that would have melted ice. She cleared her throat.   
  
"We have finally been given a grant that allows us to extend the non-fiction wing. If the construction workers bother you, sir," she said, stressing the 'sir', "you're more than welcome to return when they are gone." What a waste, he thought to himself. This one was kinda cute.   
  
He wiggled his jaw, tempted to laugh off her obvious dislike for him. "Nah, don't bother me none." He smiled, enjoying her repulsion at his intentional bad grammar. "If you'd be kind to direct me to the research wing, I'll be out of your hair."   
  
She rolled her eyes and pointed to her right, bracelets jangling on her slim wrist. "Take a left at that sign there that says 'Research Wing.' Right over there."   
  
Bookie followed her outstretched hand and chuckled sheepishly. "My thanks, ma'am. Now, can I just come get you if I need any assistance?"   
  
Bookie watched her as she considered the possibility of this idiot interrupting her once again. With a deep sigh, she hoisted herself off the chair. "Follow me."   
  
Amidst the drilling and sawdust of the construction workers, the brunette librarian led him in through the door and stopped abruptly.   
  
"What kind of research are you looking to undertake?"  
  
"Um...with that spinning thing...you know, with all the newspaper reels?"   
  
"The microfilm?"   
  
"That's it!" He smiled triumphantly. "I think. You got one of those?"   
  
She pursed her lips and nodded curtly. "Yes, we have one. It's in back." She started off again, and Bookie followed her clicking heels into a dark, dusty room.   
  
She clicked on the light switch, not that it made much difference. The room was still pretty dark. "We have reels dating back almost fifty years. It might help if you know exactly when you're looking for, instead of shooting blindly in the dark."   
  
"Yeah, I do," Bookie replied, thumbed a sealed box to his left. "About ten years back?"   
  
"Oh, well, that's not too far." She actually smiled. "Any particular newspaper?"   
  
Bookie shook his head. "I'm looking more for the information. Pretty straightforward."   
  
She seemed to ignore his last comment. "This is the reader. You can have either a full source, or a ¾ COM picture. Twist this little knob to scan forward or backward..."  
  
Bookie only half listened as she droned on about the machine. He was busy drifting his eyes over the many boxes piled on top of each other. Maybe he'd even look over some of his old articles. Nah, that was a waste of time. His older stuff was pretty bad.   
  
His attention snapped back to the voice, still talking. "...and you just pop it in and go. Did you get all that?"   
  
"Oh, yeah, sure," Bookie assured her, plopping down in the seat. "Where are the little...things?"   
  
"The film?"   
  
"Right. I'm looking for a certain date."   
  
"Which is?"   
  
Bookie tried smiling, but she still looked a little mad. "Uh, I don't know exactly. When I say date, I mean a certain event."   
  
"Maybe I've heard of it...although if it was ten years ago."   
  
Bookie took her cue. "Assassination of Charles Xavier. About a decade ago."   
  
Her face was blank. "Charles who?"   
  
He realized that she knew just a little less than he did. "Never mind. I'm fine here. Just point out the stuff from ten years ago."   
  
She smiled again, relived at being let off the hook. "Along the back wall there. Be careful not to mix anything up." She excused herself and headed for the door, pausing just before she disappeared from sight. "Happy hunting, sir."   
  
He winced at the 'sir' reference. Was he really getting so old? With a short sigh, he spun his chair to check out what he had to work with at the back wall.   
  
And held back a groan when he realized the back wall was hidden somewhere underneath all those boxes.   
  
  
  
At some time after two hours had passed, the first mention of Charles Xavier appeared.   
  
Well, Bookie realized, not the first. The guy had been all over the place at one time, appearing at this benefit, or presenting a former student with some award at another. For a long time, he was just a rich guy in a wheelchair, who happened to be an advocate for mutants and their rights.   
  
Bookie argued the wisdom in looking back an extra five years. He figured he'd get a feel for who the guy had been. You know, for human interest purposes.  
  
But for a long time, all he had been was a rich guy in a wheelchair.   
  
Then, around eleven years back, he upped the intensity on his mutant cause, going all out and public. He appeared at rallies, on television, and Bookie even found a few editorials the guy had written. Of course, a lot of people were suspicious of why exactly he was so pro-mutie, but it was never a huge issue.   
  
On a reel dated August 15th, nine years ago, there was a small square at the base of a society page. A little snippet that Bookie might have missed if not for good fortune. He scanned the little box and smiled widely.   
  
  
  
  
*Early next week, a benefit is planned for early next week to bring further attention to the homo-superior cause. A world-wide spokesman for the issue, Charles Xavier, is scheduled to attend, as well as other advocates, such as Theodore Gangly, of the University of Alberta, and Dr. Moira MacTaggert, a foremost expert in the field of genetic mutation. A generous turnout is expected. Tickets are available by calling...*  
  
  
  
  
He felt it, right down to the marrow in his bones, that this was it. He'd stake his claim as a reporter that that was the big one. The one where Chucky went down. Quickly, with the temporary expertise of someone who's been doing it for a few hours, he sorted through the film chips and picked a handful to scan thorough. It took him another twenty minutes.   
  
Then, bang! There it was, the headline splashed across the page, as plain as a bomb exploding:   
  
  
ADVOCATE KILLED AT BENEFIT  
  
  
He scrolled down and read the article, still with a smug expression on his face.   
  
  
  
  
*Last night, during a speech from Chief Executive of Relations, mutant advocate Charles Xavier was shot point blank in the head. The assailant was able to flee in the ensuing commotion, and all attempts to locate the culprit were abandoned early this morning.   
"This is truly a blow to the mutant community," said Ursula Pickerings, an attendee at the gathering. "One wonders how it could have occurred in the first place."   
Xavier was rushed to the nearest hospital, to no avail. He was pronounced dead on arrival.   
Many were led out in tears, or in shock, as the benefit dispersed immediately afterward. Police attempted to question many at the site, only to be greeted by either hostility or ignorance.   
As of now, the police have no leads, and are doubtful of a further investigation. "Chances are that this was a hit," Sergeant James Graham reported solemnly. "And the likelihood we're gonna catch this guy is pretty small. I'm not saying I like it, but that's how it looks."   
A source close to family and friends report a service will be held late this week in his honour.*  
  
  
  
  
There was more, but Bookie just rubbed his eyes and placed his head in his arms. He suddenly felt very tired. But, he remembered the words of his first journalism professor: Sleep is for normal people, not reporters.   
  
Besides, he was on a roll. He flipped open the cover of his trusty notebook and scribbled down the date it had happened on August 21st, and the date it had been reported.   
  
He picked up the next slide in procession and popped it into place. It was from a few days later. This article was on the third page, this time.   
  
  
  
  
*Dr. Henry McCoy, a close associate of slain Charles Xavier held a small press conference this morning at the Walden Hotel regarding the current state of investigation into the recent assassination. Dr. McCoy greeted a select group of reporters and journalists with a solemn tone.   
"Ladies and gentleman, believe me when I say this is not over," McCoy announced well into the statement. "We seek justice, and will settle for nothing less than the absolute truth. Those who knew Charles Xavier grieve for him, but are not deterred by this tragedy. I have only one thing to say to the man who took this life. You may try to kill the dreamer, sir, but will never kill the dream."  
Dr. McCoy had no further comment.*  
  
  
  
  
Over the next few editions, Bookie found scattered reports, of new evidence that eventually fell through, of witnesses who hadn't seen a thing, and of police leads that led nowhere. After what seemed like a million articles, the trail suddenly went cold. Just...stopped. No more accounts of what happened, no more little blurbs about an upcoming trial, nothing.   
  
Looks like it became old news quick, Bookie figured as he silently reviewed his notes.   
  
He decided that was enough research for today (or any day). After he had shoved the film clips back in their semi-respective boxes, he packed up the few belongings he had brought in with him, and figured out how to print a few of the articles he'd found. He felt the beginnings of a headache coming on, and rubbed his temples dully.   
  
Always at the worst times, he thought to himself. He snatched up the freshly printed papers and walked back out into civilization. The pretty brunette was still at her desk at the front.   
  
"It's a good thing you came out when you did," she said almost civilly to him. "I was about to get you myself. We're closing in fifteen minutes."   
  
"Yeah, well..." he trailed off, pausing only for a moment in front of her desk.   
  
"Did you find what you were looking for?"   
  
He nodded slowly. "I think I did." He tossed her a casual good bye and headed for the street.   
  
  
  
Night fell.   
  
With the evening came the sticky humid air. His fan was cranked up to the highest setting, but it was still kind of useless sitting on the dresser.   
  
Bookie picked up the phone and dialled the number from memory. After three rings, the other end picked up.   
  
"Uh huh?"   
  
"Hey Wesley."   
  
"Oh...Bookie...long time, no speak."   
  
"Yeah, yeah. Listen, Wesley..."   
  
"No. No more favours."   
  
"Look, I-"  
  
"Absolutely not. See, I decided this a while ago. No more."   
  
"Give it up, Wes," Bookie drawled. "You owe me."   
  
"Oh, really."   
  
"Do I need to remind you of the incident at Genosha? And how I managed to keep that little incident out of the papers...?"   
  
"Okay, okay, I remember." There was a lengthy pause as Wes considered. "What'dya want?" He asked in a quiet voice.   
  
"I need you to find somebody for me."   
  
Another pause. "Doesn't sound so bad. Yet."   
  
"It's not so bad. It might even be perfectly legal." Bookie let out a chuckle.   
  
Wesley was quiet for about three seconds. "Yeah, alright. I guess. But I'm only leavin' retirement temporarily, you hear? Don't expect me to do this on every whim you got."   
  
"I got it, Wes."   
  
"What's the name?"   
  
"McCoy." Bookie thumbed through his notebook for a second before he found the page. "Dr. Henry McCoy."   
  
  
  
  
  
Me Again: Still working on that telepathy idea of mine, so if you'd indulge me...  
  
  
  
  



	3. Out of Practice

  
  
Disclaimer: I really get tired of these. Doesn't Marvel already know what they own? Or is it a power trip to have all these little fan fic writers bowing at their feet, telling the world who owns these characters? Lousy bureaucrats...  
  
  
READ ME: Because all of this takes place in my own little universe (I like to call it the Land of Bounty for some reason) I would like to state FIRMLY so that no one tries to lecture me:   
  
I'm writing my own history here.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Three  
Out of Practice   
  
  
Another hour, Bookie figured to himself, before he should leave for McCoy's office. The slip of paper that held all the information he need on McCoy was burning a hole through his wallet.  
I can't feel my lower body, Bookie thought as he hoisted another heavy record book onto the table. After one mind numbing morning of looking at book after book after book (he hated reading; imagine the irony in that), he would be grateful to never see the inside of a library again.   
  
Not to mention, he hated to admit, he hadn't learned a thing. Which really set him off. Wasting time was not a big deal to Bookie, as long as he was wasting someone else's. He definitely had a problem with throwing away his own.   
  
First of all, he had no idea how to research something that, according to many sources, hadn't existed in the first place. Like, for example, the X-Men. Aside from useless newspaper clippings and one entry in some nameless encyclopaedia, Bookie had very little to go on.   
  
No, less than that. He had nothing.   
  
And now he was going to interview this McCoy guy who, by virtue, knew more than Bookie could ever find in this crummy little library storeroom. It just made him mad.   
  
His head sunk down to the cool of the table, and soon he wrapped his hands around his face, trying to rub the ache out of his bleary eyes. Now he had a headache, as icing on his cake.   
  
In another hour, he'd meet Henry McCoy, for reasons he didn't understand. In fact, Bookie was quickly forgetting what had caused him to search for McCoy in the first place.   
  
Oh, but then he remembered. It was a gut feeling. A gut feeling. How reliable. He couldn't even believe himself.   
  
He closed his eyes and tried for the first time to try a new approach. A more...personal one.   
  
What did HE remember?   
  
Not much. He had grown out of the novelty of super powers and heroes that saved the day soon after he turned eight. By the time the X-Men were on the scene, he'd been in junior high, and too worried about homework and Tara Wilson (his unrequited first love) to pay much attention to the six o'clock news. And everyone knew that the six o'clock news was for old people to watch while their stomachs 'digested'.   
  
Bookie wished he had a better connection to the X-Men. Like, watching them appear on the six o'clock news was what inspired him to divulge into journalism years later, hoping someday an opportunity just like this one would arise. Or that his older brother had been rescued by the noble heroes, so he in turn accepted this job as a way to repay them. Or that the dreams of someday being like them was what had gotten him though those sleepless nights while his parents fought in the next room.  
  
But, no. He had watched the six o'clock news six times in his memory, usually just to catch the scores. His older brother had been a football player who never needed saving. His parents were still head over heel for each other, and still went out to dinner every year on their anniversary to recreate their first date.   
  
The X-Men -whatever it was they had been- were being discovered (and not very successfully) by Bookie as he went along. He had no more interest in them than he had to.  
  
He had code names. He had 'super powers'. He had blurry, outdated photos. He had nothing real.   
  
Nothing real.  
  
  
  
  
He couldn't help but feel out of place in the elevator.   
  
For one thing, Bookie was surrounded by important looking people, either in white (spotless) coats, or expensive (or at least expensive looking) business suits. Plus, he wasn't entirely sure (he was no expert), but it sure sounded like Beethoven drifting down from the speaker in the corner. And everything was so shiny...  
  
Not to mention the fact no one was saying a freakin' word.   
  
He carefully concentrated on watching the floors tick by as they went up, because that way he could ignore the stares the other people were sneaking. He could, honestly, understand why. Here he was, attempting to disappear, all the while standing out, dressed in a beat up looking brown blazer, and shoes that hadn't seen polish, well, ever. In one hand, he dangled his portable recorder, and in the other, a worn notebook and his best (um, only) pen.   
  
He nodded politely to the woman who was not so subtle in her stares. She returned his acknowledgement with an amused smirk.   
  
When he clicked onto his floor, he pushed through the crowd and waited impatiently as the doors decided to open. It must have looked great to the guys behind him when he practically spilled onto the floor.   
  
Not bothering to recover his already lost dignity, Bookie glanced around the lobby before him, then down at the torn slip of paper in his hands. Once more, he glanced over the information.   
He'd have to trust Wesley on this one. For all Bookie knew, his old buddy was sending him into the lion's den.   
  
Or at least to a fake address.   
  
Bookie tried to remember the brief conversation he'd had with Wes the week before. He had been in a hurry to meet a girl downstairs and barely paid the guy any mind.   
  
'Listen, Bookie, man,' Wesley had said in that nasally voice of his. 'This guy McCoy is some kinda biochemist. Smart shit, man. Word is he's gonna be up for the Nobel in-'   
  
'Prize?' Bookie interrupted, the mention of the word sharpening his attention.   
  
'Yes, Bookie, as in prize.' Wes scoffed over the phone, which came off as more of a cough. 'Anyway, he's spent years workin' on that Legacy virus. I think he gave that up, though.'   
  
'Fantastic,' Bookie had muttered, pocketing the address he had scribbled in haste. 'Now, look, I got somebody downstairs, so...'  
  
'Right. Well, I hope I've been of assistance,' Wes offered dryly, obviously feeling he had gotten the fuzzy end of this lollipop.   
  
'No, really, Wes, I owe you a million. Anytime you need somethin', call me.'   
  
'Now that you mention it...'  
  
'Not now, Wes. Talk to ya later.' Bookie hung up the phone and took off downstairs.   
  
And now, here in was, in beautiful downtown Dayton, Ohio. He'd never been to Ohio before, let alone Dayton. He was quickly beginning to dislike any city outside of Chicago.   
  
Bookie swung open the doors of Larkville Biological Conventions cautiously, as if the hinges might snap if he got too eager. The place was as quiet as a tomb, excluding the constant tittering of the secretary's keyboard.   
  
Bookie glanced around the smaller lobby that was encased on the other side of the glass doors. A few chairs, a coffee table. Plants. The walls were pale blue and the carpets were white. Average lobby stuff. There was the receptionist's desk (or maybe it was a secretary, he didn't care). The place was as spotless as the rest of the building. Immaculate.   
  
Bookie stepped forward and cleared his throat softly, in case any loud noise would knock the walls off the place.   
  
It took the girl at the desk a few seconds to look up and acknowledge his presence. She had a pretty face. "May I help you?"   
  
"I'm here to see Dr. McCoy?"   
  
She held back her smile pretty well. "Is he expecting you?" Which, Bookie knew, was the polite way of saying 'In your dreams, paperboy'.  
  
"I do believe so. Bookie Johnson. I called ahead."   
  
The brunette with the shining curls stood up, carrying a few manila envelopes. "I'll just let him know you're here, Mr. Johnson. Take a seat."   
  
Bookie didn't bother to sit down. She was back a few minutes later, still holding the envelopes.   
"Dr. McCoy is in a meeting right now-"  
  
"I can wait."   
  
The girl seemed as if she was expecting that answer and pointed down a hallway. "I can show you to his office if you'd care to wait there." He nodded, and was led to a rather large, rather sparse room. There were plenty of awards and certificates adorning the walls, but nothing personal-like. For cryin' out loud, even Bookie had a picture of his mother on his desk. But not this room. Not one personal token or picture.  
  
"He won't be too long," the secretary promised, just before she left, shutting the door behind her.   
  
Forty five minutes later, the door behind Bookie squeaked open. He turned to watch a large man lumber in, wearing a spotless white coat similar to those he'd seen in the elevator.   
  
"A thousand apologies to keep you waiting," the man said immediately, shrugging off the lab coat and revealing the blue suit underneath. "Some things can't be helped."   
  
Bookie extended his hand. "Dr. McCoy?"   
  
The doctor graciously took the extended handshake. "Yes, yes. You must be...?"   
  
"Bookie Johnson. From the Chicago Advocate. We spoke briefly, on the phone? Last week?"   
  
"Oh ,yes. Yes, of course." He moved around his desk to sit at the chair. "Please, take a seat." Bookie obliged. "Did Katherine offer you anything? Coffee? Water?"   
  
"Nah, I'm fine," Bookie insisted, waving off the offer. "Pretty long meeting."   
  
Dr. McCoy smiled widely. "Around here, we don't call them meetings." He slipped off his thick glasses and rubbed his eyes. "We don't call them much of anything else, but they certainly aren't meetings of the traditional sense."   
  
Bookie nodded as if he had the slightest clue of what the man was talking about.   
  
McCoy must have noticed the pen and paper poised in Bookie's hand and abruptly remembered why the man had come here. "Well, Mr. Johnson, considering I've already swallowed up a great deal of your afternoon, why don't we disperse with the common pleasantries and get right to the business at hand?"   
  
"Sounds good to me." Bookie pulled his recorder from his jacket pocket. "I'm assuming you know the reason I'm here, then?"   
  
"You were rather vague on the phone, but I was hoping it had something to do with our extensive research on the molecular interest in particles brought back from Mars," he murmured as he polished his glasses with a soft cloth. "But I greatly doubt that."   
  
"You're a smart guy."   
  
McCoy smiled slightly. "Well, I like to think so."   
  
"I am here," Bookie started, pressing the record button on his tape player. "On a quest for truth."   
  
McCoy nodded slowly. "Charles Xavier."   
  
"A very smart guy."   
  
"Allow me to extend congratulations," McCoy said in a wry tone, tapping his fingers in a methodical melody on the desk. "You're the first in a long time."   
  
Bookie tried to ignore the underlying message in his voice and cheerfully smiled (smiling tended to get you out of a pinch). "Shall we begin?" he asked, setting the small recorder on the desk before him with a quiet metallic click.   
  
McCoy motioned his hand in the air, "By all means."   
  
Now what, Bookie pursued to himself. He hated this part of the job. Not to mention he'd been out of practice for a long time. Certainly you couldn't call a generic interview with a stadium technician practice for this. It was his first real, uh, grown up interview in a good long time.   
  
"How did you come to know Charles Xavier?" Yeah, that was it. A nice, safe question to start off with. After all, Bookie wasn't here to find out about McCoy; that he could learn later. He was here on a mission (at least, that was what he liked to tell himself).  
  
"I was his pupil, at the private school he founded." Bookie, being a master at human behaviour, could tell from his curt tone he'd been asked that question a million times, and had probably provided the same answer each occasion.   
  
"At Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters?"   
  
"Yes, that's correct."   
  
"And how long did you attend the School?" Oh yeah, he thought to himself, THIS was going well.   
  
"Oh, for the better part of my youth. I stayed on afterwards, to help with the newer recruits, for a little while, before I moved on to other things."   
  
"You called students recruits?"   
  
McCoy seemed to gradually realize his apparent error. "Yes, well, you see, we were never really a school of traditional means. Our student body at one time rarely exceeded into the double digits."   
  
Bookie muttered a thoughtful sounding "I see" and nodded solemnly. He had no idea what the guy was talking about. He also had little clue to how to lead the conversation to where he wanted it to go. "Please, go on."   
  
"Well," McCoy obliged , not originally intending to say much more. "Any student that we accepted had to meet certain criteria. The program consisted of extensive study in various fields, and required intensive drive and dedication."   
  
"So, not just anybody got in?"   
  
"Precisely. Rather, we went looking for candidates, instead of waiting for them to come to us."   
  
"So, you were sort of a teacher there, huh?"   
  
"No," he said quickly and harshly. "Charles was the teacher, always the teacher. Everyone around him constantly learned from him. I was never sure if he intended that, or if it was simply in his nature."   
  
"So, I take it so have a great respect for him?"   
  
"Who?"   
  
"Xavier."   
  
"Oh, yes. It was under his tutelage that I completed my doctoral studies. I always felt he judged you only by your potential, nothing more. And he could encourage you, no, force you to achieve your potential. I owe him a great deal."  
  
Was it just him, or did these answers sound rehearsed? Bookie blinked off his annoyance (it was mostly with himself, anyway) and tried another angle. "The papers...they always described you as a close associate of Xavier. Care to elaborate?"   
  
"Charles and I, we were partners of sorts."   
  
"In what sense? Business?"   
  
"No, partners in science. Partners in knowledge, even. Charles, you see, would have the brilliant ideas, and I would be the one to carry them out. He was an intellectual, I, merely the scientist."   
  
"And when you say brilliant ideas, you mean...?"   
  
"Well, to stay out of technical waters, all our experiments usually dealt with the matter of genetic mutation, the kind that evolves into home-superior. He had an incredible mind. Yes, in so many ways, he was brilliant."  
  
Alright, enough of that. "You liked it there? At the School, I mean."   
  
"Yes, very much. I spent many of the best years of my life there."   
  
"This probably isn't a big surprise to you," he began slowly. "But not much information about the School is just floating around, for anybody to snatch up. Well, nothing besides what your Xavier guy wanted everyone to think."   
  
"Well, Charles conducted every matter about the School just as he saw fit."   
  
"So my next question would be about the School itself. What is it that you did that seemed to need so much secrecy?"   
  
"Secrecy is a strong word, Mr. Johnson. Perhaps discretion is a better choice." He smiled. "But, to answer your question, it was a school. We learned."   
  
A real chatterbox, this one. "Did you have any idea about his other life?"   
  
McCoy seemed genuinely dumbfounded. "Which 'other life' would that be, Mr. Johnson?"   
  
"Well, I'm not sure if the news reached you," he replied carefully, "but it came out that Xavier had been the head of the X-Men."   
  
"The head?"  
  
"Yup, the boss. He, as far as we can tell, paid the expenses, housed the whole lot of them, and cut some political strings when necessary."   
  
"I see."   
  
"Did you have any idea? I mean, you lived there for a time."   
  
"Well," began McCoy, laying both hands in front of him on the desk. "I had some inkling."   
  
"So, you were aware of the X-Men?"   
  
"Of their existence, of course. I'm sure I even met them on a few occasions."   
  
"But, what? You can't be sure?"   
  
"These days, there's little I am sure of."   
  
"What about your fellow students?"   
  
"What about them?"   
  
Bookie had no idea what about them he wanted to know.   
  
McCoy clicked his tongue. "It seems well advised to do your homework, Mr. Johnson."   
  
"I'd be glad to, Dr. McCoy, but it's quite hard to do when that information doesn't seem to exist."   
  
McCoy was silent for a beat. "Five. There were only five of us in the beginning."   
  
"I see." Bookie didn't care to press his luck. "Did they have knowledge of Xavier's association with-"   
  
"Perhaps. But then again, why would I speak for them?"   
  
Well, Bookie thought, at least he hasn't used the old 'no comment' bit yet. There was still hope. "Did it ever seem odd to you that so much of last years of his life revolved around the issue of mutant rights? Did you ever wonder why a human would devote such energy to a cause that didn't directly involve him?"   
  
"I'm sure the man had his reasons. Surely you can't balk the justice in allowing such hatred continue?" McCoy leaned forward on his desk. "He was consumed by the debate for most of his life, actually. His support only became public in the few years before he died."   
  
"Did you ever believe that maybe, he was killed because of his stand on the issue?"   
  
"I have little doubt in my mind."   
  
"But the police were never able to recover much of a case, were they?"   
  
McCoy's jaw tightened. "The entire matter was handled poorly. First of all, security at the event was disastrous. Obviously, they should have anticipated such a disturbance at such a high-profile event."   
  
"Did you ever have any suspicions that prejudice had anything to do with the Xavier Assassination to go unsolved?"   
  
"Prejudice?"   
  
"Xavier associated publicly with mutants. There are a lot of people who don't like that."   
  
"Point taken. I suppose that a member of some sort of anti-mutant league could have executed it, but for some reason...I don't think so."   
  
"Why is that?"   
  
"It's unlike them."   
  
"Then who?"   
  
"Well, I've always suspected someone closer...perhaps a former associate of Charles."   
  
"What possible reason could anyone have to kill him, in that case?"  
  
"Think of the great murders of our time, Mr. Johnson. Caesar. Lincoln. King. And what did they all have in common? Jealousy and power."   
  
"You believe it was attempt on someone's part to gain power?"   
  
"Again, it is only my own suspicions."  
  
"What about the night Charles was murdered?"   
  
"I wasn't in attendance. I was actually supposed to give a short speech, but I had to decline at the last minute."   
  
"When did you find out?"   
  
"A friend," he sighed, rubbing his chin with a large hand, "called me that evening. She was in terrible shape. I knew something was wrong the moment I picked up the phone."   
  
"And the next week..."   
  
McCoy solemnly closed his eyes. "The next week was the memorial. Surprisingly, we managed to keep it rather low key. The funeral, on the other hand, was anything but small. They turned out in droves."   
  
"And what was it like for you, afterwards?"  
  
"Well, admittedly, some of my colleagues had a harder time coping than I. I've had to say goodbye more than once in my life. You could say I've gotten used to it."   
  
Bookie used his pencil to scratch behind ear, once again faking flipping through his notes.   
  
"May I be blunt, Dr. McCoy?"   
  
"Within reason, Mr. Johnson."   
  
He glanced up at the man behind the desk, staring calmly at Bookie while waiting for his next question. If he wasn't planning to co-operate, why had he bothered to okay the interview? Not that it was shaping up to be much of a scoop.   
  
"Why was Charles Xavier killed?"   
  
McCoy broke the eye contact he'd had going with Bookie.   
  
"For what he was, and especially, what he wasn't."   
  
The phone beeped insistently to his right, and the good doctor promptly excused himself, and turned his seat so Bookie could not hear the conversation.   
  
Bookie took the time to study this Henry McCoy, this doctor of science. He was a big guy, Bookie knew that the second he walked in. Unusually large hands as well. Well spoken, well versed, well dressed. But there was something nagging at the back of Bookie's mind...  
  
"Mr. Johnson?"   
  
Bookie snapped back to reality. "Yes?"   
  
"I apologize, but I'm needed desperately downstairs. Perhaps we could continue this another time?"   
  
Right, just what he was hoping for. "Of course," he lied.   
  
"I hope I've been of some help to you. I..." he trailed off, his eyes wandering to a corner on his desk. He stood there, paralyzed in the position for a moment, and Bookie actually saw the idea click in his head.  
  
McCoy reached over and slid his Rolodex over, poking through it in a wild fever. After a few spins, he plucked out a small rectangular card.   
  
"I'm giving you the number of a man who lives in New York," he said as he briefly studied the card, most likely debating the wisdom of this gesture. He straightened and stalked over to where Bookie sat patiently. "He may be a tad more willing than I to help your cause. If not, I can do nothing else for you," McCoy said earnestly, dangling the card a few inches from Bookie's nose.   
  
He continued, quickly summing up. "I'll contact him myself, so you call his offices within a week or two. He's an old, old friend of mine," he pressed the card into Bookie's hand, and for the first time he noticed the bulky, clunky looking watch on his large wrist. "If you're really looking for truth, Mr. Johnson, I hope you find it."   
  
Within moments had slid into his spotless lab coat again. "If you'll excuse me now, my duty awaits me." Bookie stood as he headed to the door. "Just let Katherine know where you're ready to leave, she'll buzz you out."   
  
Henry McCoy stopped in the hallway, and turned to face his office. "Goodbye, Mr. Johnson. I pray you find whatever its is you're looking for."   
  
  
  
Bookie left the diner with his stomach still relatively empty. There wasn't a good place to eat for miles around his hotel, and he was the one to suffer. He was starving.  
  
It was a short walk back to where he was staying. He was tempted to change rooms, the one he was in now being an awful location next to awful neighbours. But he didn't bother. He'd be out of here soon.   
  
That is if McCoy ever decided to get back to him. He'd taken extra precautions, and left his hotel and room number with the cute secretary. But a week and a few days had passed with no answer, nothing at all. And it wasn't like Bookie had anything better to do with his time. He was getting annoyed.   
  
He walked through the lobby, noticing it was slightly busier than usual. Instead of checking the desk for messages like he did twice a day, he figured he'd go without. It was such a pain to ask for messages day in and out and get the same answer: no.   
  
He felt a tap on his shoulder and spun around. The clerk was standing a few feet behind him.   
  
"Mr Johnson?"   
  
Bookie nodded and glanced around the area. "Yeah, that's me."   
  
"You didn't check your messages like usual, sir." The clerk held up a white slip of paper. "This came in this afternoon, sir."   
  
Bookie's eyes grazed the piece of paper before he grinned. "Thanks," he said to the guy, grabbing it from his hands and speeding of to the elevator. "You made my day."   
  
An hour later, after ordering from the crummy room service and digging out his trusty notebook, Bookie carefully punched in the ridiculous amount of numbers before it rang. After what seemed like forever, there was a voice on the other end.   
  
"Hello?"   
  
"Uh, Mr. Worthington, please?"   
  
  
  
  
  
Me Again: Go ahead, GUESS what I want to know.   
  
  



	4. The Truth Leaks

  
  
  
Disclaimer: They're not mine, and don't remind me.   
  
  
  
  
Chapter Four   
New Ground   
  
  
  
  
"Three weeks, Terri! Three freakin' weeks!" Bookie yanked off his hat and tossed it onto the hotel bed. "Can you even believe that?"   
  
On the other side of the country, Terri suppressed a sigh, instead pulling her blond hair into a ponytail. "You're exaggerating, I'm sure."   
  
"No, I ain't!"   
  
"No, I'm not, Bookie," she corrected, as she let her good grammar get the better of her.   
  
"What?"   
  
"Never mind. What did you say this man's name was again?"   
  
"Worthington. Warren Worthington. The third," he intoned, stressing the last word. "And apparently, he's so freakin' important it takes a month to return a phone call!"   
  
"You only said three weeks, dear," Terri corrected, threading the phone cord between her fingers. Where had she heard that name before?   
  
"It's the same thing!" he snapped. Which made Terri smile.   
  
"At least you're out of the office," she purred into the receiver, absolutely sure that would calm him down.   
  
"Yeah," he admitted after a short breath.  
  
"No stifling four walls ready to pounce on your creativity," she continued.  
  
"True..."  
  
"And, no more Jack," Terri finished. "Well, for a little while anyway."   
  
"You make a great case," he mused on the other end, though, noticed Terry, without the fury in his tone he'd used before.   
  
'He's rich, this guy?" She leaned over to paw through her magazines (she didn't have many).   
  
"Gee, I don't know. Maybe. He only has a international company named after him."  
  
"Don't get sarcastic," she warned softly. "I hate it when you get sarcastic." She grabbed the one she wanted and thumbed through to the page. If her hutch was right...  
  
"Sorry. I'm just annoyed, is all."   
  
"I know. You need to calm down. You always manage to get yourself in a knot when you've got something like this under..." she trailed off as she scanned over the list in front of her. "I think you should where a tie."   
  
"What's that?"   
  
"Very funny. I'm not kidding...did you pack a tie like I told you to?"   
  
"Terri, you're starting to sound like my mother."   
  
"Well, someone has to take care of you. And it may as well be your girlfriend." Terri shifted her weight. "But really, I'm serious."   
  
"And here I thought you were just making conversation."   
  
"My dear, if you thought McCoy's office was classy, just wait till you get a load of Worthington."  
  
"I hate ties. I only brought two."   
  
"Is one of them the one with the little ships on it?"   
  
"No."   
  
"Then you're fine."   
  
"I told you, I hate ties."   
  
"Warren Worthington is the seventy-ninth richest man in America. Wear a tie." She ticked her eyes over to her clock on the wall. "It's late here. I have to go."   
  
"Alright. I have to find a tie to wear, anyway."   
  
"I love you."   
  
"I know you do."   
  
"Oh, and don't wear your old brown hat."   
  
Bookie was about to inquire what exactly was wrong with his old brown hat, but Terri had already hung up.   
  
  
  
  
He had only himself to blame that he didn't listen to his girlfriend. In an act of blatant defiance, he had proudly entered the building of Worthington Enterprises with the floppy old brown hat perched on his head. The scattered suits in the lobby didn't bother him; no sir, he was fine indeed. There was guy standing to operate the elevator when he got in, which freaked him out a little bit, but other than that, it was empty, which made Bookie pretty happy. Apparently not many executives rode the elevator at three o'clock in the afternoon.   
  
Compared to the office of Worthington Enterprises, Bookie realized as he stepped out of the elevator onto the eighty-third floor, the neatness of the lobby downstairs was small change. The hat was off Bookie's head faster than you could say 'overstuffed leather chair'.   
  
He stepped up to the woman stood next to her desk with a headset attached to her ear. She was speaking rapidly into the little microphone, hands sorting though a file folder and gesturing wildly every second minute.   
  
"Excuse me, ma'am," he said politely, a smile glued to his face, as he felt very intimidated by this woman. "I'm looking for Mr. Worthington's office."   
  
The woman gave him three seconds of her attention. "Good for you." She adjusted her headset and continued to ignore him.   
  
"Do you know where it is?" Bookie tried again, positive he had given her the wrong idea.   
Meanwhile, the hat in his hands was getting the fidgeting of its life. If this kept up, he wouldn't have a hat by the end of the day.   
  
The woman rolled her eyes and dismissed him with a harsh jerk of her hand, before she whipped around and sat in her chair, dialing in another phone number.   
  
Bookie frowned. What did it take to get some service around here?   
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," a voice spoke up behind him. Bookie turned around to see a tiny little lady in pastel pink walking up to him with her hands clasped together. She was older than the other women in the office, by more than a few years, with her hair tucked into a tight bun and a flower in her lapel. "Hello dear, I'm Wanda. I was supposed to be here to greet you, but I had to run downstairs to copy a few things."   
  
Bookie smiled widely. Finally, someone was acknowledging his presence! "Oh, hey, no big deal."   
  
"This way, please." She smiled so warmly Bookie felt a tickle in his spine. She was like a grandma in heels. She stopped however, halfway down the hall and whipped around, a slight frown on her face. "You are the reporter, right?"   
  
Bookie nodded quickly, and the smile returned to her face. "Right this way, then!"   
  
He was led down a tunneling hallway, that eventually opened up into a wide receptionist's quarters. The receptionist was not there. Wanda, however, ducked behind her desk and pulled out a large date book.   
  
"I just have to double check your appointment," she explained as her fingers deftly speeded past the pages. "Mr. Worthington is a very busy man, you'll understand." Bookie nodded, his eyes scanning over the prints of some obscure artist lining the walls.   
  
After a moment, she straightened up, smoothing her dress as she did. "Here you are, Mr. Palmetto, as scheduled."   
  
Palmetto? Uh oh, Bookie realized, this was Washington all over again. "Oh, wait, Wan-" he began, but was quickly pushed with urgency through a pair of blood red oak doors.   
  
Wanda mistook his protest for directions. "His office is the second door. The middle door. Remember that."   
  
But when Bookie didn't move, or give any indication he even understood English, Wanda grew a smatter annoyed. "Now hurry along, dear, Mr. Worthington hates tardiness." She gestured for him to get a move on, and Bookie swallowed a sigh and turned to walk down the dim hallway.   
  
When he came to a set of three doors he remembered Wanda had expressly mentioned the middle door.   
  
Not that he could have missed it. The set of door stretched as high as the ceiling, and was adorned on either side of the wall by exquisite gold vases that held fresh roses.   
  
He guessed this guy was rich, but this was pouring it on a bit thick.   
  
He grabbed the shining gold doorknocker (last time he'd seen a door knocker was on a castle in Ireland) and waited for some sign of being acknowledged.   
  
All he heard was a short mechanical buzz and a click that released the lock on the door. Bookie entered.   
  
There was a desk placed directly in the sunlight at the far end of a small hallway, with a chair that was turned with its back to Bookie. The only sound in the room was coming from that chair; the sound of a man's voice.   
  
"Yes, I'll try and make it, but you know how these meetings go, Bets." A shock of brilliantly blond hair was barely visible from the back of the turned chair. This, Bookie assumed, was Warren Worthington.   
  
The leather chair spun around, its passenger sensing another presence in the room. And Bookie nearly gasped. This guy was a freakin' Adonis! Blond hair that sucked up the sunlight in the room, an impeccable suit (probably Armani) and a smile as he gestured for Bookie to take a seat. Bookie made a quick note to research his subjects more carefully.   
  
"Yes, seven at the latest. Well, in that case, you should give me more notice. No, I didn't mean it that way. Look, sweetheart, I've got to go, the guy from People is here...yes, I'll mention it. I love you too. Goodbye."   
  
Worthington placed the phone down and shrugged. "My wife. She hates it when I work late." He took a moment to shuffle some papers together and stuff them into a desk drawer. Then he stood and offered his hand. "Hello. I'm Warren Worthington."  
  
Bookie returned the shake. "Bookie Johnson."   
  
Worthington sat back down in one smooth gesture. "I haven't seen you before. Are you new?"   
  
It took Bookie a moment to realize he meant if he was new at the magazine. He let out a little laugh. "Actually, Mr. Worthington, I'm not from People." He noticed the quick raising of Warren's eyebrow and quickly continued. "I do have an appointment, I think, but your...secretary, I guess, got me mixed up with someone else."   
  
Warren paused with an air that led Bookie to believe this was not the first time this had happened. "So I assume then, you're some kid fresh off the bus from Wisconsin looking for a job."   
  
Bookie shook his head instantly. "Oh no, sir, I'm a reporter. From the Chicago Advocate."   
  
Put slightly at ease, Worthington relaxed a bit. "Chicago? Aren't you a little far from the nest?"   
  
"Well, sir-"  
  
"Call me Warren. I have enough people bending over to please me. I don't need complete strangers to get into the habit as well."   
  
Bookie nodded, but had little intention of actually calling him 'Warren'. "I'm here doing a piece on-"  
  
"If you say anything about decline of business in America or the growth of economics I'll kick you out..."   
  
"Charles Xavier."   
  
Warren said nothing for a beat, then broke into a wide smile. "What a relief! Finally, a reporter with no interest in my bank account!" he leaned forward and clasped his hands together on his desk. "So, what would you like to know?"   
  
"I've already talked to your friend Dr. Henry McCoy. And..."   
  
"That was you? Oh, yes, I remember that! I didn't really think he was serious! Otherwise, I'd have let you in a lot sooner."   
  
"That would have been nice," Bookie forced with growing resentment.   
  
"Where did Hank leave off?"   
  
"Excuse me?"   
  
"Well, he told me he was in a hurry, and didn't have time to go over the whole story with you." Warren leaned back in his leather chair with an authority that he must have been born with. "I'll just pick up where he left off."   
  
Bookie hesitated. He didn't want to admit he wouldn't have been able to beat the information out of Henry McCoy with a generous piece of two by four. "The original members."  
  
"The X-Men?"   
  
Bookie nodded quickly. He HAD meant members of the school, but who in their right mind would stop someone who obviously just wanted to hear themselves talk? "'Yes, that's it," he lied through his teeth. "The first members of the X-Men."  
  
Warren nodded. "I guess in that case you know all about how Charles headed the whole thing. It came out a while ago."   
  
"How did you know about that?"   
  
"Well, I know the story broke a few years ago. I managed to smother it to a few no-name papers out west, instead of the media frenzy it could have been," Warren said simply. "The old man deserved a little peace."   
  
Bookie nodded, quickly fumbling for his tape recorder. "Start at the beginning."  
  
"Well, there were five of us, way back when Charles enacted his great big dream. Recruited us when we were barely teenagers."   
  
"For the X-Men?"   
  
"Right. the originals. Forget all those that came afterwards; we started it all."   
  
Something clicked in Bookie's head, and he skipped back a few pages in his notes. "You...you're the Angel?!?" he said slowly.   
  
Warren chuckled. "Well kid, drop that 'the', and any present tense, and yup, you got me. I know the name's a tad...contrived, but I always liked it." Warren saw the look on Bookie's face and continued. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking..."  
  
"Where are your wings?" Bookie asked, astonished and trying not to stare.   
  
"Strapped down," he sighed. "It still hurts, but you really get used to it. I'd prefer a little discomfort to having people stare at you."  
  
Bookie nodded for no reason.   
  
"I had it easy, compared to some...people out there," he continued. "I mean, Hank's got to wear an image-inducer every day of his life, except among friends, and Scott can't-"  
  
"Hank? As in Henry?" Bookie swallowed gently. "McCoy?"   
  
"What? Oh yeah, try not to get confused. I think I called him Henry once in my life. Anyway, like I said, wings aren't half so bad as green skin or scales..."   
  
Son of a bitch, Bookie thought as he mentally kicked himself. Secretive little son of a bitch...  
  
Warren interrupted his train of thought. "Uh, Mr. Johnson?"   
  
"What? Oh, right. Sorry, I was just trying to connect the names to the faces," he improvised instantly.   
  
Warren immediately understood and reached into his bottom desk drawer while Bookie waited awkwardly. Finally, he handed something to Bookie over the desk.   
  
"My wife doesn't know I kept this; she'd kill me if she found out." He gestured to it half-heartedly. "That's the only picture of all five of us I have left."  
  
Bookie had his first picture of the original X-Men in color.   
  
"That's all of us. The professo- I mean, Charles made us get together for one group at least once every year."   
  
"You were very close?" Bookie asked quietly, noticing the wide grins on every face.   
  
"Like family."  
  
"Tell me about them," Bookie said, leaning back in his chair (which was growing more uncomfortable by the minute).   
  
Warren smiled like he had waited years to hear someone say that. "I'll start with Hank, since you've met him already. It's not too hard to pick out Hank in that picture; he's the one with the gigantic hands and feet."   
  
"He was Beast?" Bookie guessed aloud.   
  
"Yeah, but talk about miscasting." Warren gestured to the picture. "That guy was not beastly in the slightest. Smart, smart, guy. Read poetry and Shakespeare in his spare time. He was the only one who looked forward to our classes more than our free time."  
  
"He's a doctor now?"   
  
"Yes, and I'm not surprised. Charles helped him out with that. None of us knew it at the time, but the professor arranged for Hank to take special classes at the local university. He zipped through those, and it was only a matter of years before he was enrolling in medical school." Warren smiled slightly. "And even with all that on his plate, he still made time to help any of us with our school work. I tell you, it was his fault I passed that test on the undertones of Othello."   
  
Warren to the picture. "Now Bobby is the one with the huge grin on his face." Bookie looked down and found him, and indeed, there was the impish grin Warren had mentioned. "The reason he's grinning is because he's about to drop an ice cube down Scott's shirt." Warren actually laughed out loud. "Scott tried it play it off, but Bobby didn't let it go for days."   
  
"A real jokester, was he?"   
  
"You have no idea. Oh, he was Iceman, by the way." Bookie paused to scribble that one down. "He put more energy into his pranks than his school stuff sometimes. The absolute worst was when he teamed up with Hank, though. Hank would think up these detailed plans, and Bobby would carry them out. And be the one to get into trouble. Come to think of it, they usually only targeted Scott..." He trailed off, only to pick up again quickly. "We were all young, but Bobby was the only innocent among us for a long time. He'd crack jokes when it was the last thing he should be doing."   
  
Warren stopped smiling and sat up a little straighter. "But I'm not giving he all the credit I should. Sure, he joked around a lot, but his laughter helped more than one person to cope. He always tried to make everybody laugh...everybody but himself, that is. If he'd only just let it go, just once, he probably wouldn't be in the mess he's in..."   
  
"What mess would that be?"   
  
Warren's gaze snapped back to Bookie. "I'm sorry, I can't talk about it," he said sharply. Bookie nodded quickly and let it drop; he'd heard that tone of voice too many times to pursue the matter.   
  
"Well," Bookie said after an appropriate pause, "who's the girl?"   
  
Warren didn't even look at where Bookie was pointing. "Oh, that's Jean. Marvel Girl. God, she really hated that name. But none of us could come up with anything better, so it stuck..." He leaned his chin onto his hand and smiled knowingly at Bookie. "Oh, I could go on for days about that girl...I was convinced I was in love with her for a great chunk of my youth."   
  
When his silence extended for one moment too long, Bookie prodded, "But that passed?"   
  
"What? Oh, no, I was in love with her all right. I think we were all a little infatuated with her."   
  
Bookie nodded and looked again at the outdated picture. He could see why.   
  
"She was a beautiful girl, though. Still is. She could charm the shirt off your back, and then come back to ask for your shoes. Unlike any girl I'd met before...or since. And, the only friend from my past I still keep in touch with." He stopped himself. "Scott is the guy second to last in the picture. The only one not smiling."   
  
Bookie spotted him right away. "What's up with the glasses?"   
  
"He had to wear them. Otherwise, he'd have leveled Manhattan by now."   
  
Bookie caught on. "Cyclops, right?"   
  
"Yup. He says he thought up the name himself, but I have my doubts about that."   
  
"Why is that?"   
  
"Well, because...I always got the feeling Scott would have picked something more formal, more intimidating." Warren thought a moment. "Like...Leader Boy. Or Lap Dog."  
  
"He was in charge?"   
  
"Well, yes. Partly because not of us wanted to be, and partly because he was born to give orders." Warren leaned forward. "Don't get me wrong, I always looked up to him. He was like...my over achieving older brother. I admired how seriously he took his position, but sometimes, I'd wish he'd just drop it."   
  
"Drop it?"   
  
"Yeah. I'd take out with me sometimes, you know, to my clubs, and try to introduce him to people. I'll admit I was mainly trying to dissuade him off Jean at the time, but my intentions were for the most part honorable. I always thought Jean deserved someone with a bit more...class, vitality. Lust for life."   
  
"Not unlike yourself?" Bookie interjected with a smile.   
  
"Took the words out of my mouth." Warren admitted slyly. "Anyway, he was never comfortable around new people, or any people, for that matter. He'd just mutter 'hello' and make his twenty ninth trip to the bar. He was never comfortable unless he was playing field leader, barking out orders and thinking up strategies."   
  
Immediately, good ole Jack sprung to mind. "Yeah," Bookie agreed, "I know a guy like that."   
  
"Well, I admit I was surprised when I found out what eventually happened to him, a couple years after Charles died."   
  
"And what happened?"  
  
Warren's mouth formed an odd, almost hollow smile. "Look it up. It's not hard to find," he said as if he knew from countless attempts.   
  
Bookie nodded absently, his gaze slowly ticking down to his terrible handwriting on his handy notebook in his lap. "That's not all, though, right?" he muttered absently, fingers deftly flipping pages. "I've got more than five names here."   
  
"Yes, Mr. Johnson, but if I tried to recount all the denominations that came out of the original X, we'd be here all day," Warren replied coolly. "And I've only got you penciled in for an hour of my time."   
  
"I don't really understand, Mr. Worthington."   
  
"Call me Warren," he sighed. "It's a long story, But I'll try to explain."   
  
Bookie took a moment to turn the tape over in his recorder. "Go ahead."   
  
"We stayed with Xavier for most of our youth," he continued. "But Jean was the first to leave. She was about eighteen, I'd guess, and just left for home to take up her normal life again. I followed her lead soon after. That's when I came here, to be taught the ropes by my father."   
  
"So that left three people on the X-Men."   
  
"Exactly. And, from what I've heard from the others, Charles felt that was hardly enough to achieve the global peace he wanted. So he started to recruit new members."   
  
"Did you have much contact with your former team during that time?"  
  
"With Jean, yes. We ran in the same circles, you see. I'd see her around. She picked up her life right where she left off. I had a harder time of it, though."   
  
"Anyone else?"  
  
"No, I barely spoke to the other three. I made an effort, of course, in the beginning, but it was just too difficult. Scott, especially, resented me for leaving. Hank and Bobby, well, none of us knew how to relate to one another after that."   
  
"What about the new additions?"   
  
"Oh, them." There was a slight annoyance to his voice. "I think the first new blood Charles scooped up was Ororo, or Storm. She really was a lovely person, I met her not long after she joined, and Nightcrawler. They were both great people; personally, I have nothing against them...but there was a certain impurity to having new members on the team that we had founded."  
  
"Then came the rest-most of which, by the way, did not work out after all. Those ones, I can't even remember their names. I talked to Scott once or twice while all this was going on and he hated it. Absolutely hated it. He disliked the entire idea of any new members, and especially the ones Charles had picked out. Keep in mind that Charles was like a father to Scott, and he didn't often disagree with his holy opinion."  
  
"And the other original members? What did they think of the changes?"   
  
"Bobby loved it, of course, because no one else did. Hank, I heard, was usually locked up in his room studying or experimenting so as not to form an opinion."   
  
"And Jean?"   
  
"Jean went back. Yes, right in the middle of all these new members, Jean waltzed right back into the mansion ready to be an X-Man again."   
  
"Did Xavier take her back?"   
  
"Of course. He was delighted to have her back. They all were, and I myself was tempted to rejoin, just so the old gang could reign again." Warren took a thoughtful pause and gazed out the window.   
"She still hasn't told anyone why she decided to go back after all that time."   
  
"Did you eventually return?"   
  
"Oh, yes, but that's not for years, yet. I finally listened to Bobby and Jean, who wrote me almost every week begging me to come 'home'. I always said no, though. Took years of being an asshole before I finally realized I missed the old life." He chuckled. "And speaking of assholes, that brings me to the member of the new team that joined just before Jean went back. Logan."   
  
"Logan?" Bookie's brain went in search of that name in his memory.   
  
"Yes, but he went by Wolverine."   
  
Bookie nodded as he recongnized the name. "I take it you didn't get along so well?"   
  
"We didn't get along. Period." Warren said in a flat voice. "He didn't get along with anyone. And didn't try, either. Except maybe-"  
  
"What?"   
  
"No, it's nothing. Let me think..." Warren tapped his pen off his desk as if it would jog his memory. "I think that was about the time that Gambit joined, too. There was a whole breed of them, all these newcomers to X-Men. I can't say I ever warmed up to the idea."   
  
"So," Bookie said, looking over his hastily scribed notes. "Lemme get this straight. You and your," he paused to search for the right word, "...friends made up the original team. Right?" Warren nodded. "And as time passed, a couple of you left for home again, during which time Xavier packed the team full of newbies."   
  
Warren nodded. "However, it wasn't the drastic change I made it out to be. More like..." He was at a loss for words, so he simply reiterated. "It took a lot of time until everyone who would be was recruited."   
  
"So when did you go back?"   
  
"Well, that I remember perfectly. It was right after the Mason deal fell through. I finally realized that I wasn't cut out for wheeling and dealing just yet."   
  
"Xavier took you back?"   
  
"Yes, and no. He wasn't as sure about me as he had been about the others."   
  
"That seems a little unfair."   
  
"Not really, Mr. Johnson. I admit that I had...changed a great deal." He nodded slowly. "Charles sometimes had a knack for seeing what no one else could."  
  
"What convinced him?"   
  
"To let me come back? Well, if I were to guess, it was probably Hank, Bobby, Scott and Jean. They wanted me to come back. I never told them how grateful I was for that."  
  
"How many people were on the team when you came back?"   
  
"Oh, I don't know the number. Let's see, besides us, there was Ororo, Remy, Kurt, Logan, Jubilee and..." he trailed off, adding it up in his head. "And of course, Betsy. So I'd say about a dozen, give or take."   
  
"Did it bother you being in the papers so much?"   
  
"Hell no. I never really got the reason for all our secrecy in the first place." He brushed a piece of invisible lint off his spotless jacket. "I think we deserved some recognition once in a while."   
  
"But what about-"   
  
Warren held his hand, a surprisingly commanding gesture for all its simplicity. Bookie shut his mouth immediately. Then Warren pointed to the right, to where a ornately carved grandfather clock sat. Bookie understood perfectly, but he carefully pulled his face into a confused look.   
  
"Mr Johnson, I've given you over ninety minutes of my time. That's a great deal to give away when you're me." He stood up and Bookie already knew his exact words. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr Johnson."   
  
Bookie didn't budge, but instead poised his pen over his notes. "Just one more thing, Mr Worthington...Warren," he improvised quickly. Warren seemed to relax, resting his weight against his desk., and looking at Bookie intently.   
  
"One more question," Warren said firmly, his tone softening. Bookie grinned-on the inside. He took a deep breath and finally settled on a ending question.   
  
"What happened to you after Xavier died?"   
  
Warren smiled, an odd haunted smile. "I married the girl of my dreams," he said slowly, his hand drifting to pick up a framed picture and hold it for a few seconds before turning it so Bookie could see. "After Xavier died, we both left the X-Men behind and never looked back. Mind you, they broke up months later, so I don't think it would have mattered if we stayed."   
  
"Name?"   
  
"Excuse me?"   
  
Bookie shrunk under the sudden change in his voice. "Her name, sir?"  
  
"Elizabeth Worthington," he answered swiftly, returning to his previous subject in a breath. "I came here to pick up my business," he said 'business' as if it were a store around the corner and not a national corporation, "and we started a family together, me and Bets. We have one boy, Warren Worthington the fourth, and a girl, Katherine."   
  
Bookie looked up at him expectantly.   
  
Warren knew what he was wondering. "No, I don't keep in touch with any of them-" He changed his mind mid sentence. "With the exception of Hank and Jean. I helped Hank out with funding on his research a few years back."  
  
"So you don't know what happened to anyone else?"   
  
"That would probably make it a lot easier fro you, hmm?" Bookie nodded desperately. After a spilt second, Warren looked as though he'd just figured out the cure for the common cold. "I know. I'll give you Jean's number, and address too, of course."   
  
Bookie graciously accepted the paper, devouring the information on it.   
  
Warren spoke again. "Yes, she'd definitely be more help to you. She still tries to bridge contact between us all," he sighed deeply. "I don't know why she bothers, though."   
  
Bookie nodded absently. "Thank you so much, Mr. Worthington. For everything."   
  
Warren brushed off the acknowledgment, with a simple sentence, "Call me Warren." He swopped over and pressed a button on his intercom. "Wanda, would you escort Mr Johnson out?"   
  
"Mr Johnson, sir?" came the slightly confused voice of the kind old Wanda.   
  
But Warren ignored the reply and walked over to shake Bookie's hand. "It was good to talk about it all again, Mr Johnson. I've got to rush...my son's playing a soccer game in twenty minutes."   
He walked over and grabbed a crisp looking overcoat from a hanger by his desk and pulled it on. "Send me a copy if the story ever prints."   
  
Bookie stood and watched as Warren began to head for a door on the side of his office. "Don't you want to know what the story's about?" Bookie called out.   
  
Warren paused at the doorframe, wearing a smug grin on his face that suited him, and answered in that superior voice that betrayed his privileged upbringing.   
  
"Surprise me."   
  
  
He watched TV for an hour before realizing there was nothing on. He tried reading a cheap paperback he'd brought at the airport, before realizing he had been staring at the same page for five minutes. He reviewed his notebook before he realized he couldn't concentrate.   
  
He knew what nagging him. But Bookie refused to succumb.   
  
The small slip of paper was burning in his pocket. On it was the name, the number of a women who, for someone he'd never met, disturbingly intrigued him. He pulled it out of his pocket and held the paper in front of his face.   
  
It's too late to call her, his mind said bluntly. Do it tomorrow morning.  
  
Bookie disregarded his mind and picked up the phone.   
  
I'm warning you, he warned himself. Put down the phone.   
  
Bookie ignored himself and dialed the number.  
  
He never listens to me anyway, complained his mind, giving up the battle.   
  
After three short rings, a crisp voice answered on the other end. "Hello."   
  
"Hi, I'd like to speak to Ms. Jean Grey, please?"   
  
"I'm sorry, there's no one here by that name."   
  
"Oh." Bookie narrowed his eyes, wondering if Worthington hadn't given him a fake lead. "You're sure?"   
  
"Yes sir," came the reply.   
  
"Oh. Okay." He must have gotten the number wrong. "Sorry to bother you."  
  
"Wait," said the other end. "You couldn't have meant Mrs. Evans, could you?"  
  
Bookie's eyes widened. "Is her first name Jean?"   
  
There was a moment of hesitation, and a muffled whisper. "Yes, it is."   
  
It had to be her. "Then that's it. Can I speak to her?"   
  
"No."   
  
Bookie bit back a curse or two. "Why not?"   
  
"Well, the Evans are at their lodge in Colorado this week, sir."   
  
"Oh." That was better than nothing. "Any idea when they'll be back?"   
  
"By Tuesday, I imagine. Is it urgent, sir?"   
  
"Well...could you have her call me the day she gets back?"   
  
"Certainly. If I could have your name and number, sir?"   
  
Bookie placed the phone back into its cradle and thought for a moment he might go to bed at a reasonable hour. Then his eyes drifted to his notebook, then to his stack of little tapes that held so much, then to the makeshift desk in the corner of the room, cluttered with newspapers, scrawling notes, and inky photocopies.   
  
And he realized, with a sigh, he had no time for sleep. After all, what was rest when he had a whole night of grainy instant coffee to look forward to?   
  
  
  
  
Author's Note: Does anyone know who was best man at Scott and Jean's wedding? It would be great to know. Why not...leave it in your review? *SHAMELESS HINT*   
  
  



	5. Perpetual Beauty

Disclaimer: If I owned any of them, you'd all know it.   
  
Author's Note: This is a second disclaimer; To anyone who may be confused, wait for it. I think I might even know what I'm doing.   
  
Oh, and early Merry Christmas everyone!!! (yes, that's right, I'm one of those annoying people who love Christmas; just deal)  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Five   
Perpetual Beauty  
  
  
  
"I'll have another one, please," Bookie signaled to the slim waitress balancing a tray on her skinny forearm.   
  
She turned at the sound of his voice. "You're black, extra sugar?" she said quickly, not pausing for him to answer before scurrying off to the counter. She returned a few minutes later with a steaming cup of brew.   
  
"Here you are, sir," she said in a pleasant tone, which completely betrayed her frayed appearance.   
  
"What if I wasn't black, extra sugar?" Bookie asked absently, as he tore open one of the packets of the sweet white stuff.   
  
"I'd ask you to get your own God-damn coffee, sir," she replied in one quick breath before bolting off yet again. Ah, how he loved not being on minimum wage anymore...He settled back into his chair and let his eyes wander over the people clustered at the tiny café tables.   
  
People still believed that you could only have a really profound discussion in the middle of a coffee house, Bookie guessed silently as he noticed the intense look on many of the faces dotting the store's landscape. He even saw one lady, with bad hair and worse taste in clothes, near tears, sobbing only held by the constant comforting of her companion, a skinny, dark haired fellow who glanced nervously from the woman to the check, unpaid, on the table.   
  
Man, what he wouldn't give to hear a couple of these conversations.   
  
Bookie couldn't remember anymore if he was early or she was late. Coffee sent his brain out of whack, more or less dulling his senses rather than perking him up. A strange side effect indeed.   
  
But, as he checked his watch, Bookie remembered. She was late.   
  
If his last two interviews had taught him anything, it was that he should have spend a little more time researching. Sure, it was the worst part of the job, but it beat walking in and looking like an unsophisticated smuck off the bus from Wisconsin. And it was certainly better than not realizing that the big, hairy guy in all the papers looked a whole lot like the big, slightly less hairy guy siting in front of you in an interview. Yeah, Bookie was still a little ashamed of that one.   
  
Hence, he'd followed Warren's advice and visited the first library he'd come across. At first, Bookie searched for any mention of what might have happened to a Robert Drake, but there was no mention. That was most disappointing.   
  
Scott Summers, on the other hand, had the privilege of occupying a tiny square of the New York Times about five years back. It was, surprisingly enough, a short blurb about an upcoming trial and, Bookie guessed, only made it to the papers because of his association with Xavier. He was currently locked up in Attica State Prison in New York, carrying out a life sentence with chance of parole in ten years. No definite mention of what he being punished for.   
  
Bookie took another gulp from his mug, the rim already tinted with the strong liquid. Normally, he enjoyed the bitter taste, but for some reason, he reached out and grabbed a cream, and poured it into his cup. The cloud swirled for a moment before becoming boringly uniform and usual.  
  
Sadly, as much as he'd like to, Bookie could not call himself a patient man. And this Jean Grey (or Jean Evans, whatever she was calling herself these days) was testing the slim amount of forbearance within him.   
  
"Is anyone using this chair?"   
  
The voice interrupted him from his daze. He looked up to see who it had come from. A tall, cute brunette, pointing to the seat across from him.   
  
He was about to shake his head nonchalantly when he stopped himself. "Yes! I mean, she'll be here soon." The girl just gave him a strange look and walked away.   
  
Okay, that's it, he decided. Ten minutes, and I'm leaving.  
  
Hell, I'll leave now! With new resolve, he tossed a five dollar bill on the table and angrily grabbed his coat off the chair behind him. He nodded for some reason to the waitress behind the counter and headed for the door.   
  
And he would have left, too, had the bell not tinkled above the door, and had a woman not stepped in that blocked his path.   
  
Although a portion of her face was shrouded by a pair of dark sunglasses, he was startled by the beauty standing in front of him. Bookie knew it had to be her. Maybe it was the soft loveliness of her features or just the red hair that gave her away, but besides that, Bookie sensed something about her that matched Warren's vague (yet accurate) descriptions.   
  
She hesitated, then pulled off the big dark sunglasses perched on her nose, to reveal the greenest eyes he'd ever seen off a china doll.   
  
She narrowed her eyes, then said with great certainty, "You're Mr. Johnson?"   
  
He nodded, and after a few seconds of neither saying or doing anything, sheepishly offered his hand. "I assume you're Mrs. Evans?"  
  
"Nowadays, anyway." She shook his hand. "And it's Jean. I'm sorry I'm so grossly late but-" She raised a hand and leaned out the door. "Darling, come in now. I'll get you a hot chocolate." Bookie simply stood next to her like a knob while she looked back and smiled.   
  
"They're always a handful at this age, or so I'm told," she explained briefly.   
  
Seconds later, a short little person pushed his way inside the shop. He grinned up at Jean, and glanced suspiciously at Bookie.   
  
"Mr. Johnson, this is Aiden. Say hello, darling."   
  
And up at Bookie gazed (rather suspiciously) two of the bluest eyes he'd ever encountered.   
  
"Hello Mister Johnson," said the little guy, slowly inching behind his mother's legs.   
  
Bookie laughed a little. "Hey kid. How old are you, huh?"   
  
"Aiden will be five years old next month, won't you darling?" Forgetting his shyness for a few moments, the boy nodded proudly.   
  
Bookie grinned down at the kid, but snapped his gaze upwards again. "Why don't we sit?"   
  
"Wonderful idea." Jean rewarded him with a knee wobbling smile. "Lead the way."   
  
Bookie was sure to hold her chair for her as she sat down, before bouncing over to his own spot. He choose a seat right across from her so he could take full advantage of the opportunity.   
  
"Aiden will only be here for a few minutes. I told his nanny to come along a little later with his sister so we could go for a walk in the park."   
  
"We saw a swan," Aiden said quietly from his seat. This comment made Jean beam with some kind of maternal pride.   
  
Bookie was about to make some small talk when the boy spoke up again. "Mommy, can I get some candy?"  
  
"I haven't got any change, darling. Besides, didn't you want a hot chocolate?"   
  
Bookie reached into his pocket and pulled out the first drop of money he felt, which happened to be a five dollar bill. "Here, kid, get whatever you like. My treat."   
  
As soon as the offer was made, the little guy had grabbed the money, shouted a 'thank you' and taken off in the general direction of the counter.   
  
"Thanks," Jean declared with a laugh. "Now he'll be up half the night on a sugar high."   
  
"Oh, well...I don't have any kids, so blame that."   
  
"Aiden counts for at least three children, I'm sure. Thankfully, Isabelle can't even walk yet so..." She pushed back a lock of red hair. "We've got another year at least for her."  
  
"We?" Bookie said after a pause. "You and your husband," he assumed.   
  
"Yes, I'm sorry. Nicholas."   
  
Bookie nodded, not sure what else he could say. He was anxious, as much as he enjoyed listening to her talk, to getting the reporting part over with.   
  
As if reading his mind, Jean quickly spoke up. "I'll answer your questions after Aiden is gone. It should only be a few minutes, although my nanny is notorious for being late." She pushed out her chair and stood up. "If you'd excuse me, I'd think I'll find my son before he buys that pink chocolate bunny I suspect he's thinking about."   
  
Soon enough a frazzled looking woman pushing (or rather, pulling) a baby carriage arrived, speaking rapidly to Jean and gesturing wildly. Jean said a few words and the woman was, a few moments later, ushering both the carriage and Aiden out the door.   
  
Aiden paused just inside the door to wave briefly back to Bookie. He smiled and waved back.   
  
"Cute kid," Bookie remarked as Jean sat back down, now with a coffee grasped in one hand. "He's got a pair of the bluest eyes I've ever seen."   
  
Jean smiled slightly, the rim of her cup hovering in front of her mouth. "Yes, well...he gets that from his father."   
  
Bookie had absolutely nothing to say to that, so he simply gestured to the waitress in hopes of getting more coffee.   
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," Jean said suddenly as her cup was placed back on the table. "I should have asked if you wanted anything."   
  
"Nah, no biggie." Bookie felt around his jacket for his trusty recorder. Hmm, that was funny, he was sure he put it in his coat pocket....  
  
"Check your left breast pocket,"Jean said swiftly, not looking up from her cup. When Bookie pulled out the object, a slight dumbfounded look on his face, she only smiled meekly. "Just a suggestion."  
  
"Right." Bookie placed the little black recorder on the table, pressing the red record button as he did. "Shall we begin?"   
  
"I don't see why not," she replied quickly, crossing her arms on the table in one fast gesture.  
"But where to start?"   
  
"Why not tell me about what happened...after?"   
  
"After what?" Jean interjected. "After Charles was killed?"   
  
"Well, now that you mention it, that is what I'm here about."  
  
"I know, but...you'll understand, it's not an easy topic to talk about." She unfolded a napkin and placed it in front of her on the table. "I think I'll start the night he was killed."  
  
"Good idea."   
  
She took a deep breath, as if summoning some force to give her strength. "I wasn't there that night. I was invited, of course, but I didn't attend. It was father's birthday, and I'd gone home to visit." She sighed mournfully. "Now, of course, I really wish I hadn't. I wish I had gotten a chance to see Charles, just once more. The last thing I said to him was something about a booby trap Bobby had planted in Scott's car." She looked up to see Bookie smiling. "It's a long story."   
  
"Nah, I understand. From what I've heard, Bobby sounds like a fun guy."   
  
"Well, that's one word," she laughed breezily. "I'd heard a few more...colorful descriptions."   
  
"Who was at the benefit with Charles?"   
  
"Well, Hank was supposed to be, but he backed out at the last minute. Logan took his seat, I think, and Jubilee had insisted on taking my place at the table. Warren and Betsy went, together, if I'm not mistaken. And Scott went because Charles had asked him to especially.   
  
"The next day Scott called me. He'd been up all night, and he was a mess. Everyone was. He didn't tell me what had happened, not in so many words, but just that Charles was hurt, and in the hospital. I found out later that he was already long dead at this point. Yet, I rushed right home, ready to stand at his bedside until he recovered." She recoiled in her chair, and closed her eyes. "When I was told the news, I didn't believe it. It took one glance at the death certificate to convince me. This was...real. It wasn't made up, or temporary. This time it was going to last forever. And I made such a commotion the nurse had to give me a sedative and order someone to take me home."   
  
"How did your friends react?"   
  
"In their own ways. Hank retreated to his study, for one thing. Some of the younger ones seemed to take turns consoling each other. Logan began to disappear for literally months at a time, even longer than he used to. Ororo walked around in this trance like state, which must have been heaven compared to what the rest of us were enduring."  
  
"And your husband?"   
  
"Scott took his death harder than anyone else, I think. Charles had been his second father; his only father, in a lot of ways. He couldn't bear that another person he loved had been ripped away from him."   
  
"I know this is hard for you but..." Bookie felt a little guilty asking the questions, and interrupting her speech. "Why is he in jail?"   
  
"He killed a man named Eric Magnus. I should have seen it coming, I suppose. He was just so consumed with finding out why Charles had died. When Scott didn't find anything, not one shred of evidence, he changed a little."   
  
"So why this guy?"   
  
"Scott assumed that it was Eric who did it. Charles and Eric had always had a strange relationship, rivals who held the upmost respect for each other. But around the time Charles was killed, things were different. The world was changing. It was a month after we buried Charles that Scott...he killed Eric from behind with one of Charles's rifles. A little ironic, actually."   
  
"And got caught."   
  
"Please. Scott never got caught. He turned himself in. I stayed with him, all through the trial; I offered to testify. All our friends were with him...he refused us all. Said that he would take whatever punishment he was given. He had always been a proud man."   
  
"He's serving time, now?"   
  
"Yes. And it was about three months into his sentence that I got the letter from his lawyers...asking for a divorce. I signed it and sent it back right away, before my mind had a chance to catch up with what the rest of me was doing."   
  
"How long was his sentence?"   
  
"Life, with a chance for parole after ten years. Not that it matters. He won't try for parole. He's staying where he is until his term is up, or he dies. Whatever comes first."   
  
"You don't talk at all, then?"   
  
"No. No, I don't. No one does. Scott refuses to see anyone but his lawyers. He was ashamed. Ashamed of what he had done. And what he hadn't done. Ashamed that he failed us all."   
  
"What happened to your X-Men?"   
  
"Well, after Scott was convicted, no one was the same. Remy took over as leader, but his heart wasn't there. He and Rogue left for Europe soon enough. Ro was second choice, but she visited Africa and never came back. We were thinning out. I knew the end was coming even before it did."   
  
"When was the end, Jean?"   
  
"I'm getting to it," she said lightly, teasingly. "Logan became the new leader. They weren't many left with us by this time. Jubes stayed, bless her heart, and Kurt. Warren and Betsy came to me one day and told me they were leaving, to get married. But I told them to leave. Run away from the X-Men and never look back. They did, and Logan was so furious he didn't bother to realize it was my fault they were gone.  
  
"Bobby was still with us, then, and Hank. Last time we fought, there was only six of us. Six. Almost like it was in the beginning. That last great fight...it should have been a easy victory. It was against the FOH. We always seemed to fighting with that crowd, in the end."   
  
Bookie recognized the reference. Friends of Humanity. Learned about them in college. Still wasn't sure he thought of them.  
  
"I'll tell you this now, I was pregnant. Yes, with Aiden. Logan would barely let me eat for myself, so he refused to put me to in harm's way. No one else was eager to drag along a poor pregnant lady into battle. I was stuck behind in the Blackbird-"   
  
"The...what?"   
  
"Oh, sorry. I forgot how ridiculous this stuff can sound sometimes to a beginner." She searched for an explanation. "The Blackbird was our transportation. It was a jet. A really big jet. With lots of...gizmos and other silly things like that we needed for some reason. I don't know, it was a guy thing."   
  
"Oh, I get it now. So, you're stuck in the Black...thing..."   
  
Jean smiled. "Blackbird. Right. And I was scared out of my head, which at the time didn't make any sense. I mean, I'd been stuck behind thousands of times before, and it barely bothered me. Maybe being pregnant was messing with my mind, but I was going stir crazy sitting in that dark little jet with no company except for the fuzzy radio link I had with the guys out on the field."   
"How close were you to the fighting?"   
  
"Very. A few hundreds yards, by my guess. I could be wrong."   
  
"Okay. I was just wondering."   
  
"Well, I opened the door, just to get a little fresh air. But it was a very warm night, unseasonably warm, and it lured me out. I figured everyone would be finished before I got back."   
  
She shifted her weight and looked down. "Jubes hit a gasoline tank, or so I'm told, and that's what blew up the jet. Huge explosion. Tossed everyone into tomorrow. I tried to run back, but the smoke, it was so thick, it took me ten minutes to safely find my way around."   
  
The memory seemed to be slightly painful for her. "I made it back to where I thought the others would be waiting, but it was just a barren field. Hank and I found each other, and Jubes was sending up fireworks from where she was trapped under a fallen tree. We were completely lost when it came to the rest of our team. We had to leave, and get Jubes some serious treatment. The house was empty when we got there."   
  
She ran two hands through her hair, letting it sift through her fingers to finally fall around her shoulders. "Bobby showed up a week later wearing a bandage around one side of head. I can't tell you how it felt to see him walking up the driveway again. A few days after that, Kurt pulled up in a taxi with a busted image inducer. Suddenly, the mansion didn't seem so depressing and empty, since hope seemed to be renewing itself. There was only one person left to come home...I spent more than one afternoon glancing futilely out the window. "   
  
But she paused, trying to swallow the waver in her voice. "Eventually, when he didn't turn up, and sent us no word, we had to assume the worst. Assume the unthinkable."   
  
"That Logan was dead," Bookie finished for her. She nodded.   
  
"No one accepted it at first, since we all brushed it off as so impossible...Logan had lived through much worse than mere explosions. But then Bobby came home to us with a rumor he'd heard through the proverbial grapevine....about the FOH and a captive they'd been playing with for a few months. It wasn't unusual for this kind of news to pop up, but it was usually met with a certain detachment. And now, everything had changed."   
  
"Was it true?" Bookie stumbled over the words. "The rumor, I mean."   
  
"Well, we didn't know. Nonetheless, we immediately dove into a grand plan to get Logan back, our precious fallen hero. We even went so far as to get our hands on blueprints of a few FOH buildings. We were actually going to go through with it, even without any established leader or any sense of direction."   
  
"But something changed your minds."   
  
"But something changed our minds," she echoed slowly. "It was an offhand comment from Bobby really began what you could call the end. It was at one of our daily little meetings, and it almost came out of nowhere. Hank had been pointing out a possible clause in a security system we might be up against, when Bobby spoke out during a natural pause in the conversation."   
  
She strained, as if remembering something that hadn't crossed her mind in a very long time. "He looked up, at no one in particular, and said some thing like, 'what if he's not with them?' Everyone thought what he was saying was absolutely ridiculous, and told him so. No one could believe his audacity, especially in front of delicate little me. I cleared my throat and directly spat my reasoning right at him, that he would indefinitely contact us, even if it was just a postcard, a phone call."  
  
Jean made a sad little noise. "Bobby didn't flinch, though. 'Think about it, Jeannie. If you could leave all this, would you?' At the time, I yelled at him a bit about the fact Logan had a few more moral convictions than that, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense.   
  
"Deep down inside, I knew my own answer. I WOULD leave, in a second, if I could have. That's what we were planning to, me and-" she cut herself off, and slowly began again in a smaller voice. "I started to get scared." She fingered a fat emerald on her finger. "And what scared me most was that I agreed with Bobby. Oh God, how I wanted to hate him for saying those things about Logan. But I couldn't bring myself to, because I was too afraid Bobby must just be right."   
  
She swallowed the last remnants of her cup. "I just got so tired of fighting. Charles' beautiful dream had been raped time after time by the world it was meant to help. And now we, his only remaining children, were stupid enough to not only consider sacrificing everything on an unfounded rumor, but we were planning on going out in one, magnificant sweep, believing we'd remain unscarred. Because we the good guys. Whatever it was the X-Men had started out as, it had died somewhere along the way to leave us with a skeleton of what it had been."   
  
"So...what did you do?"   
  
"Well, I called a meeting that day and officially disbanded the X-Men, and sent everyone home the very next day. Scott and I had inherited the mansion when Charles died, so I wrote off a quick letter to his lawyers stating my intention to sell the house and divide any profits between the remaining 'students'. I received a formal agreement a week later, with Scott's signature on the appropriate documents. And just like that, I knew it was over for real this time. There was no turning back anymore."   
  
Bookie, who had sat mesmerized a few moments earlier, snapped into reality at the silence. "What happened afterwards, to you?"   
  
"I moved back with my mother, mainly because I didn't know where else to go. For the first time, I had nothing holding me down. No X-Men, no husband, no great love, no great dream. Just me. And Aiden."   
  
Jean paused to order yet another cappuccino. After the waitress stalked away, she continued. "After awhile, though, things changed. It was hard raising a child whose father might be dead." Bookie raised an eyebrow at this one, but let her continue without interruption. "I married Nick a year and a half after Aiden was born. It was something I needed. And I thought that would be it. Just me, Nick, Aiden and any other children that might come along."   
  
The waitress returned and unceremoniously placed Jean's cup in front of her. "I had decided against getting a job, since Nick made so much we didn't need another income. Instead, I just slipped right into where I figured I'd have been if the X-Men hadn't existed. I held garden parties. Invited friends for tea. Just became a neat little socialite, clean and clear with no actual purpose. Blissful. But..." Bookie had felt a 'but' coming along. "One day Jubilee sent me a letter. She had moved out to LA to become either an actress, or a singer, I can't remember which." She furrowed her brow for a moment as she tried to remember. "Anyway, she just wanted to talk again. I suppose she missed her old life, as...difficult as it could be sometimes."   
  
"I suppose that made you want to talk to the others...?"   
  
"Precisely. And besides Warren and Bets, whose house Nick and I always visit, I hadn't seen or heard from any of them in what felt like lifetimes. Enough time had passed. They were my friends, and I missed them."   
  
She ticked off her fingers as she recalled each of them. "Some were easier to track down than others. Kurt is in Germany, married to a nice young girl from Austria, and I think their current count children-wise is about three. Hank, as you know, co-founded his own research facility in Ohio, and was almost married at least once. Ororo only came back to the States twice as far as I know, and I've seen her each time. She's a little more secretive about her new life than I thought she would be. We used to share everything, you see.  
  
"But time can be a terrible disease, sometimes. A very old friend of mine, Moira MacTaggert, died of cancer last year. It got back to me that Remy and Rogue, the ones who ran off to Europe, were both killed. I couldn't find out precisely how, and I'm actually a little fearful of finding out the truth."  
  
"What about..." Bookie checked his notes again. "Bobby? You haven't mentioned him yet."   
  
Jean's eyes glance down the table. "This has to be off the record."   
  
Bookie was caught off guard. "Okay."   
  
"No, really. I need your word."   
  
"I swear that this stays between you and me, and the guy two tables back who's probably listening in anyway."   
  
Jean smiled. "He's not. I know these things." She leaned in closer. "Okay. Since you gave your solemn word...He's under government protection. Essentially, in hiding. Bobby did some bad things after we parted, and drugs was one of them. Officially, he doesn't exist anymore. Which, if it wasn't so terrible, would amuse Bobby greatly."   
  
"So, you don't hear from him a lot, then?"   
  
"Well, it's been about six months now. He's not supposed to even think about contacting someone like me, and Bobby knows it's a serious risk. But he sends letters anyway, at no particular order of time. One for me, and two more for Warren and Hank, for me to deliver. He used to send one for Scott too, but gave up on that when he caught on Scott never read them."  
  
Bookie "And you never heard from Logan?"   
  
"As far as I'm concerned, he died many years ago, Mr Johnson." She smoothed out the tension in her voice and tried something else. "Is that your real name?"   
  
"Huh? What?"   
  
"Bookie. Is that the name your mother gave you?" She said this with a small smile.   
  
Bookie found himself grinning like an oaf. "Er, no. That's the name I picked up in college, and it stuck."   
  
"It must come from your great love of books, I assume," she offered, her voice dripping with sarcasm.   
  
"If you must know, he began with a wry smile, "I was well known for my...talent with numbers, if you follow."   
  
Jean narrowed her eyes, and stared at him. Then a moment later her eyes widened and a hand raised to her mouth. "You staged cock fights?" She almost shrieked, causing a few heads to turn in their general direction.   
  
"Hey, keep it down," Bookie urged. "That was a great guess, by the way."   
  
"I'm sorry, but...isn't that a strange hobby?"   
  
"Maybe," he admitted. "But a very profitable one."   
  
"So what is it?" She brushed some sugar off the table. "Your real name, I mean?"   
  
He hesitated."Milo."   
  
"Oh. I like Milo. It almost suits you." She leaned back in her chair and stretched one arm behind her head. "Oh, and in case you're wondering, Nick knows nothing about what I used to be. He wonders, of course, what I was doing all that time away from home, but he's gotten quite used to not knowing. Which leads me to my next request."   
  
Jean placed one of her perfectly manicured hands on top of Bookie's. "I've built a wonderful life for myself here, a very happy one. I have a husband that loves me a great deal, two beautiful children, and a bright, blissfully normal future to look forward to." She was looking deep into his eyes. "I'm sure the others have asked this too, but please Mr. Johnson....Milo," she added quickly, "I'd appreciate if you kept my name out of this piece. Use my alter ego all you like, whether it be Marvel Girl or Phoenix or whatever. Plaster my faded grainy newspaper photos on the front page. But just...no Jean Grey. She almost doesn't even exist anymore."   
  
Bookie paused, tempted to deny her request. But his damned moral code (and those big green eyes) won out again. "I understand completely, Mrs. Evans. Jean Grey won't appear in my story, nor, if I can prevent, any others pertaining to this subject." He smiled briefly. "I can't guarantee that last part, though, okay?"   
  
Jean rewarded him with a brilliant flash of teeth. "I should really be going...it's getting dark out." She slid her chair out and stood up. Immediately Bookie jumped to his feet.   
  
"Let me walk you out," he offered, holding out his arm. She obliged, linking her own through his.   
He insisted on footing the bill, and was soon hailing down a taxi to see her safely home.   
  
Jean paused at the open cab door. "Thanks so much, for everything. Including your silence."   
  
Bookie shook off the gesture. "I should be thanking you, Mrs. Evans. All this information and all I had to pay for was a couple cups of coffee."   
  
Jean was about to slide inside the car when inspiration struck. She stepped up onto the sidewalk where Bookie stood and grabbed his hand for a hasty shake. She then leaned up on her toes to plant a soft, all too brief kiss on his left cheek.   
  
"I'll be watching for that story, Milo," she stated lightly, before turning and hopping into the cab.   
  
Milo Johnson simply stood on the curb a few extra seconds, sending off one of the most beautiful women he'd ever met.   
  
He lifted his palm, however, suddenly aware of a distinct scratchiness inside his hand. It was a tiny piece of paper, actually a napkin from inside the coffee shop torn in half. Bewildered, he stared after the taxi, which had long disappeared into the gorge of traffic. His eyes scanned over the now crumpled writing. Along the top was a phone number (long distance, of course). Then following, in elegant cursive, five words:   
  
Jubilation Lee, Los Angeles, CA  
  
  
  
  
Me Once More: Who wants to play a game? It's called REVIEW TIME! It's lots of fun and everyone seems to be playing it... 


End file.
